


what we don't talk about

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Cunnilingus, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 11:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: They're just drinking buddies who fuck.There's nothing to talk about.





	what we don't talk about

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keita52](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keita52/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [То, о чем мы молчим](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495369) by [fandom_MassEffect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_MassEffect/pseuds/fandom_MassEffect), [MilvaBarring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilvaBarring/pseuds/MilvaBarring)



> Many thanks to [BardofHeartDive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bardofheartdive) for taking the time to beta this!

Zaeed sucks his teeth, adjusting the bottle so it sits at the exact center of the table. Then, after another moment of thought, he pushes it towards one of the chairs, where it will be invitingly in reach. Candles would be too soppy, too try-hard, but the room has dimmer lights so he sets them to a sultry twilight. The rest of the Citadel’s on night-cycle already, which makes a great excuse if she doesn’t like it.

_Zaeed, you worry too much_ , he can imagine her saying, soft and husky. The way she’d smile as she says it, equal parts amused and irritated.

_Of course I fucking worry, it’s my job,_ he imagines saying back, but he’ll be damned if he spends their last night together boiling his blood over an imaginary argument—

There’s a knock at the door.

Zaeed springs to attention, conducting a last-minute check of the necessaries—soft piano on the speakers, brandy on the table, Viagra in his pocket—before opening the door for Karin. She’s wearing black slacks and a form-hugging grey sweater, like a charcoal sketch brought to life. Pearl earrings gleam in the shadows of her hair.

“Always good to see you out of uniform,” he says, leaning in. She tilts her face upward, allowing him to kiss her cheek and catch a whiff of her perfume. It smells of vanilla, warm and sweet. He almost regrets not splashing on cologne, but it’s too late for that now. “That outfit will look better on the floor, though.”

Karen sighs, brushing past him and trailing a hand along his arm. “Zaeed, you never change.”

“Yeah, well. Enough other things are changing.”

Karin’s eyes meet his, cool and distant. By tacit agreement, they never discuss the Reaper invasion when they’re alone together. It’s impossible to escape, otherwise. Zaeed never had many friends to begin with, but now the dead outnumber the living.

Zaeed wipes his palms on the front of his trousers, abruptly awkward. “I bought that brandy you like,” he says, by way of apology. They’re not dating—god knows he’s too old for that shit—but they're drinking buddies who sometimes fuck. Even if they’re meeting in hotel rooms for it, because privacy’s a luxury after the tight confines of a ship.

“I’m afraid you have outdone me.” She smiles, pulling a box of chocolates from the purse that he still stubbornly wants to call her medkit. “I only bought those chocolates you like.”

“Give ‘em here.” He tears open the box and rips into the gold foil, making a show of noisily chewing as he wolfs two down at the same time. Karin’s face is set in that familiar expression, smile fixed but eyes dancing, where he knows she's horrified but struggling not to laugh.

He pulls out a chair for her, and even helps scootch it in after, gentle-like, before pouring two glasses of brandy. “Toast?”

Karin smiles. “To old friends.”

“And dead enemies.”

They clink glasses, then sip.

She’s quiet, and Zaeed wonders if the ‘dead enemies’ line comes too close to what they won’t talk about, so he tells the joke about the asari and the one-legged turian and it scandalizes Karin into laughter.

Zaeed is struck by her radiance, the lights glinting silver off her hair and the soft lines that frame her mouth, the way the skin crinkles around her eyes, and how the galaxy is ending, there are already worlds dead and dying, but here they are in this fancy hotel with the nice booze and chocolates and how, under other circumstances, this could be so goddamn _romantic_ —

But they’re just friends who fuck.

Zaeed tries to be a _good_ friend, at least. So after they eat the chocolates and drink the brandy, he unwraps her with more care than he did the sweets. He rolls the sweater up slowly, kissing the exposed skin of her belly, then nuzzles the soft lace of her bra. Despite the demure this-is-not-a-date attire, she has on a black lace bra and matching panties. He takes the time to fold her clothes and set them aside, because god knows the good doctor won’t want anyone seeing her rumpled from fucking a scuzzy merc. Zaeed kneels on the ground before her and sucks sweet bruises along her thighs, little bouquets of red and purple. He works his way up the apex of her legs, working his mouth over her folds as her ankles hook each other across his shoulders, as she grips and claws at his head and twists his ears for leverage. His mouth is booze-blurry, soft, and she tastes sweetly acidic, all blending with the warm vanilla of her perfume. He spells his name with his tongue, over and over, because if he dies tomorrow he still wants Karin Chakwas to carry Zaeed Massani somewhere inside her. He goddamn _performs_ because even if he has to take a pill to make his dick cooperate, he’s still got _pride_ , and—and—

“Oh god, Zaeed,” she moans, hips canting, body taut. Spine in bow and flex, her heels drumming his back. “I love, I love—”

She arches, a wet-slick grind against his face before collapsing back in the chair, sweat-damp and heaving.

_Yeah? You love…?_ he coaxes. He doesn't say it, but he smiles up from between her legs. He won’t beg for it, but if she’s offering—

“I love when you do that thing with your tongue.”

Later, after the pill’s done its job and they’ve had lovely missionary sex with a pillow under her ass to help with the angle, Karin falls asleep on his shoulder. Zaeed counts her breaths as she sleeps, feeling his own lungs slow to match her rhythm.

_We’re just friends who fuck._

But after this war—after this fucking war they don’t talk about—he’s gonna take her to dinner.


End file.
